


this misery will suffice

by LogicalBookThief



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: 'cause that episode fucked me up but in the best of ways, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, also they're in love so jot that down, takes place after 2x03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-18 18:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12393909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicalBookThief/pseuds/LogicalBookThief
Summary: Pills are dropped into his palm. Tomas squints."Don't want to," he mumbles, and at Marcus' exasperation, clarifies with a less childish, "Don't want to sleep.""Good thing nobody cares what you want," says Marcus, cheekily.Or, the aftermath of 2x03: Unclean. AKA: You expect me to believe Tomas just walked it off after being nailed in the skull with a hammer?





	this misery will suffice

**Author's Note:**

> Features a few headcanons that shouldn't be taken too seriously - just some ideas I had based on Tomas' reactions to things this season, that I wanted to try and flesh out. 
> 
> And also, more of these boyfriends being soft, 'cause I'm happy they've stopped fighting (for now) and are back on the same page. 
> 
> Title taken from the song "Sleeping Sickness" by City and Colour, do yourself a favor and go listen. it's got a lot of Season 2 insomnia/vision feels.

_This is it, Tomas thinks, working up his courage. He practiced in the mirror for a whole half hour while Olivia got ready for school, before she banged on the bathroom door, yelling, "Hurry up, Tomas! What, did you drop the toilet seat on your-"_

_"That was_ one _time!" he cries, glaring at his sister, who stands a head taller than him and diminishes any attempt at intimidation. She cackles, flicks his nose, and traipses past him into the bathroom._

_"Your hair's a mess," he says snottily, watching her hastily tie it back with a scrunchie._

_"Shut up," she hisses, slathering her finger in spit and wagging it at him, the looming threat of a wet-willy. He sticks out his tongue, smart enough to keep his distance. "Mama couldn't help with my hair."_

_What Olivia means by this is clear to Tomas, at age six, who somewhat understands the delicacy of their mother's unnamed condition. Learning this doesn't deter his mission, though he feels more trepidation than he did a moment ago._

_"Adios," Olivia says, ruffling his hair. He follows her to the kitchen, watches her kiss Mama's cheek before scurrying out the door. Usually Tomas would be trailing after her, and six days into his recovery, not doing so leaves him forlorn._

_"Mama," he calls, softly. She hums, eyes closed, chin cradled by her palm. She looks tired, but she looks that way most days. Beside her, a steaming cup of coffee grows cold._

_"There's an assembly in school today," he recites, like practiced. "Lorenzo says they're bringing animals for-for us to see and I. I want to."_

_"Go to school," he tacks on, when she doesn't reply._

_"No," she dismisses, patiently. "You aren't well enough to go."_

_Tomas screws his face up._

_"But I feel okay," he protests. "I'm not sick, I swear. Really, I'm-"_

"No, _Tomas!" she snaps. Her eyes are open, burning into him, and it's all Tomas can do to make his quaking legs support him, cowed under her ire. He is better, he knows, and Mama isn't any happier with him always at home, so why she won't let him leave-_

_"I told you. You can't," she says so quietly he strains to hear. "It isn't - it's not safe, miho, not for the other kids."_

_"They might catch what you have," she adds, an afterthought. Tomas nods with his head bowed, peeking at her through his curls._

_Olivia's eyes stare out at him, but that isn't his sister's face he so's familiar with, it's the stare of a stranger. Worse, it's twisted with something that makes him want to hide, worse than her bursts of anger or shouting-_

_Terror, that's what it is. She's afraid, his own mother, afraid of him-_

He startles, awake between one gasp and the next. This is becoming the routine for him, clawing into consciousness through the sheer force of his heart pumping against his ribcage.

Aside of him - because why shell out for an extra bed? Marcus argued, pragmatic to a fault, and Tomas is enthusiastic at the prospect of _any_ bed nowadays - Marcus remains blissfully asleep.

Small miracles, Tomas relieves. Smothers a groan, his head pounding. He creeps out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom, shuts the door with the barest creak. Then he crumples and promptly expels the contents of his stomach, which mainly consist of chips and bile. He rests his head against cold porcelain, his pants ringing loud in the silence. Not loud enough to wake Marcus, he hopes.

_He's afraid of you_ , whispers the dark, treacherous corners of his mind. But it isn't the voice of the demon any longer; it's a voice he hasn't thought about in years, yet has never managed to forget.

*

*

*

*

There's no urgent case demanding their attention the next day, so that's their cue to take a break, recuperate. After a nonstop week of physical and emotional turmoil, even Marcus isn't immune to the strain, and sleeps deeply. Tomas doesn't begrudge him the rest, but he envies it.

Sleep eludes him - or rather, he eludes sleep, along with the visions that will undoubtedly follow.

He walks to a nearby corner store in lieu of a jog he would've taken if he was home in Chicago. To quell the short burst of homesickness, he buys cheap coffee that simmers sourly in his gullet. Despite the taste, it makes him feel marginally more alive.

In his pocket, his phone sits heavily, the desire to call Olivia almost unbearable. He blames his shaking hands on the caffeine and stuffs them in his jacket, clasps the phone like a lifeline.

The problem is, he was so _young_ when their mother - well. So young that the details are unclear, that he can't trust his judgement. Tomas considers how the conversation with his sister would go; him, half-hysterical and concussed, asking what's fact and what's his inept child memory trying to make sense of it all. Because if he can't _see_ , if he isn't sure, how can he discern what's real and what's the demon?

How can he trust his own mind, when it almost cost him a girl's life?

Ultimately, he decides not to call, or even send a text to tell her how he is. Better to lie by omission, he supposes. Better to leave those memories buried, let her move on with her life, as he's done. He wonders, vaguely, how much she's hidden to save Luis the burden of knowing, just as she had for Tomas.

At the store, he browses aimlessly, until he reaches an aisle of bland stationary. The only color it offers is a row of children's crayons, pencils and markers. He grabs the biggest pack of crayons they sell and a decent-sized tablet.

From there, it's a fuzzy drive to the hospital, his body moving on muscle memory more than input from his sluggish brain.

He half-expects they'll turn him away at the reception desk, but a nurse from yesterday recognizes him, and ushers him to Harper's room without a fuss. "She may not be awake, or if she is, she won't be up for a chat," she warns, so Tomas assures her that he didn't plan to linger.

She lies so still, seeing so at peace that he nearly flees without a word; he has no right to steal that from her, after everything she's gone through, everything she has yet to.

Then she stirs, perhaps not as tranquil as assumed. She spots him through whatever comfortable haze of drugs they have her on. "Father...?" she croaks, peering at him through half-lidded eyes.

He approaches her the way he would an animal at the shelter, easily spooked. "Tomas," he reminds, his smile friendly.

"Tomas," she repeats, raspy. He grabs the water from her bedside and brings it to her lips to sip. He is good at this part, the administering of care, though even in that aspect Marcus usually outshines him. The acknowledge doesn't chafe his ego as maybe it would have not all that long ago.

Harper blinks at him owlishly, tiredly. The gaze isn't cowing in the slightest, yet he strains under the guilt that carves itself between his shoulder blades.

"I brought you something," he tells her, and pulls out his purchases, splays them across the table. "I hope you like it."

They aren't the fanciest art supplies, but her eyes rove over them with what he identifies as interest, muted by her exhaustion.

"Hospitals can be boring," Tomas says with a smile. "So I thought these might help."

"Than-" she tries to form the words, but begins to cough, and he frowns. Tentatively, he lays a hand on her arm, giving her ample time to resist.

"You don't have to," he starts, and halts, changing his course.

"I'm _sorry_ ," he says, because she should hear the apology directly from his mouth. "For not- realizing the truth, sooner. You deserved better from me, from everyone, and I'm so, so sorry."

"But I want you to know," he adds, the beat of his heart a rapid thrum in his ears. "That even when I thought you were possessed, I wasn't afraid."

Harper widens her eyes a fraction, like she hadn't expected that, or she hadn't come to that conclusion. Either alternative is heartbreaking.

"We weren't afraid of you. _Never_ ," he intones, and it's important that she know. Whether for her sake or his, he has no idea. "Just afraid _for_ you. Do you understand?"

Her gaze offers little assurance in that regard, glazed as it is; but slowly, she nods. She watches him until they won't stay open any longer, and she falls into a doze right before his eyes.

After ensuring that she is genuinely asleep, Tomas whispers a prayer for her and, true to his promise, leaves as quietly as he came.

*

*

*

*  
Marcus has already showered by the time he returns. With a pointed sniff in his direction, he advises Tomas to do the same (which is ridiculous, because he'd showered the night before to wash the blood off his scalp, out of his hair). Not without pestering him about his whereabouts.

"Coffee." Tomas shrugs. "Good coffee, you know, with flavor and such?"

"Pardon me," Marcus snorts, playfully shoving him towards the shower. The ribbing is appreciated, though not nearly as much as the contact.

The water left in his wake can't be called hot, or warm, for that matter. Tomas stands under the spray until he's shivering.

Afterwards, Marcus bullies him into breakfast at a cozy diner. The waitress greets them with a yellow-tinted, red-rimmed smile. Marcus sets about charming them up a few drinks. Tomas is content to let him do the talking, grateful that all it takes is a hammer to the skull to be excused from his partner's scrutiny.

Outside, the sky is overcast, the window panes dampened by rain.

His thoughts drift to the past again, against every instinct. There is a reason he repressed these memories, he concedes - it is far easier, far kinder that way. But with Harper's plight a fresh wound on his mind, and the terrible thing the earnest Mrs. Graham's nearly convinced him to do salt to the cut, perhaps this was inevitable.

If anything, Tomas has never felt closer to his mother, being this scared of himself. All the _maybes_ he's beat down, all the damning _what-ifs_ his arrogance wouldn't acknowledge, rush at him like dam's that finally cracked under the strain.

She was a good woman, his mother; but a sick woman, too. That is the story Abuela spun, mostly for his benefit, if anyone's.

Maybe, he ponders, maybe that illness passed from mother to child. Maybe the visions are symptoms of an affliction that like the tide will someday swallow him whole.

Or maybe - and this, this is the one to keep him up at nights, the one that hides its ugly possibility behind whatever excuse he can find - _maybe_ , his mother wasn't as sick as Abuela said. Maybe she was _right_.

Maybe she saw in him what nobody else could.

The doubt plagues him, and in a moment of madness, he thinks he'd trade the uncertainly for a cut-and-dry case of possession. Marcus would probably knock him flat if he heard it, and Tomas never plans to admit it aloud, but possession doesn't instigate such questions.

Harper isn't unclean. Nor Casey, Angela, Gabriel - all of them pure, children of God. But Tomas?

_Because if the visions aren't a gift from God, if they're more harm than good-_

Tomas shudders, unraveling into reality. The scent of eggs and sausage beckon him from the table. Marcus is speaking, his plate half-gone. Concerns about Bennett, the Vatican, and the conspiracy flow from his mouth in an undertone meant only for their ears; things Tomas should be worried about, yet isn't, too drained to fully realize the impending dangers that await.

All of a sudden Marcus breaks off, staring at him with an intent that makes his skin itch.

"None of that," he says in that gruff, no-nonsense tone. Tomas can't figure out what he means until Marcus taps the table in front of Tomas' plate with an order to, _"Eat."_

Tomas grimaces at the thought. Shakes his head, lips tight.

It's a subtle shift, but he sees the way Marcus tenses, the stiff line of his shoulders that he's learned to notice. "This isn't up for debate," he murmurs, leaning forward ever so slightly.

By this point, Tomas knows all the man's tells as well as his own, and if he keeps up this obstinate behavior, they're headed for a confrontation. Normally, he isn't one to avoid that, always tempted to press Marcus' buttons right back. But if he opens his mouth now, he _will_ be sick.

And silence is its own form of resistance.

He must be quite the pitiful sight across the booth, since Marcus breaks first. _"Tomas,"_  he insists.

And whatever Tomas says or doesn't say to that is lost in the moments of confusion that follow. He isn't entirely sure how he got here, crouched in the alley and vomiting into a trash bin. Sweat beads on his brow. His skull must be splintering in half, the way it throbs with every hitch of breath.

"Hey, buddy," someone sighs. "Ain't it early to be hittin' the bottle?"

Tomas groans dumbly, his throat sore from the hot taste of bile. He clenches his teeth to stop the dry heaving, the stranger's noise of disgust too close for comfort.

"Alright, c'mon, you don't have to go home but you can't stay here, pal-"

Hands pry at his arm, try to haul him up. Tomas flinches, full-bodied, and plants himself more firmly. Then they disappear, and he hears the stranger's yelp, a cross between disgruntled and frightened.

"If you know what's good for you-" The rest of the threat fades into the background. Tomas sags against the wall, panting, as he tries to sort through the pain.

Cautious fingers yank his fists away from where they frame his face, pressed against his temples. Marcus sweeps his knuckles over Tomas' forehead, searching for fever. His pulse quickens under the touch.

"Just nauseous," Tomas rasps. "It'll pass."

Thin-lipped, Marcus ceases his examination. "Maybe we should have you checked out again."

"Don't think our insurance will cover it," Tomas says dubiously, and it tugs a smile from Marcus, which makes this miserable day just a bit more bearable.

Without waiting for an invitation, Marcus slings an arm over his shoulder, and Tomas should protest; he isn't an invalid. Still, the world sways the minute he moves away from the wall, and he murmurs his thanks when Marcus displaces some of the weight his feet don't care to carry.

In the motel, he deposits Tomas on the bed and makes a beeline for the bathroom. Tomas shucks off his shoes and cringes through his headache, fists buried in the crisp, freshly laundered sheets.

A cup of water is pushed under his nose. Realizing how thirsty he is, Tomas chugs it in a few gulps. Marcus chuckles and shoves two protein bars at him, unearthed from God knows where.

"Eat," he orders. Gentler this time, but with an edge to it; it wouldn't be Marcus without it, somehow. "You can't take the pain meds on an empty stomach."

Tomas complies, chewing slow to stave off nausea, and focusing on anything besides the weight of food in his stomach.

Halfway through the second bar, his stomach flags, refusing to accept another bite. Suddenly he doesn't care that Marcus is hovering nearby, doesn't care that he's weak and a failure. He turns over and buries his nose in a pillow, struggling to breathe through the panic.

Nearly five minutes of forcing measured inhales through his nose, out his mouth, and Tomas resigns to throwing up again, despite his best efforts. And then the bed shifts, or rather, he does. Repositioned so that he's lying on his back, face exposed to the cool air, the curve of his head cushioned by a lap.

He bites back a moan when fingers trace reverently over his temple, brushing the epicenter of pain.

When he blinks open his eyes, Marcus is staring straight ahead. 

"You..." Tomas swallows, a flush of heat spreading over his cheeks.

"Don't get used to it," Marcus scoffs, though it's hardly effective, not while his fingers stroke Tomas' hair, skirting over his scalp with such tenderness his stomach flips. Not in any way that relates to the nausea.

Marcus offers no further explanation, so Tomas submits to the overwhelming urge to let it go. Part of him doesn't care to hear the answer, doesn't care why, as long as Marcus _keeps_ touching him, just like this. His eyes flutter closed with a sigh.

Eventually, his pain melts into a low, manageable hum. The world narrows down to the slow, soft caresses woven through his hair, occasionally drifting to the nape of his neck, where those fingers dig in with such gratifying pressure that he shivers. 

"Been long enough, yeah?" Marcus murmurs after a while. "Think you can handle a few of these?"

Pills are dropped into his palm. Tomas squints.

"Don't want to," he mumbles, and at Marcus' exasperation, clarifies with a less childish, "Don't want to sleep."

"Good thing nobody cares what you want," says Marcus, cheekily. Budges him up, so he can fetch more water.

"Ass," Tomas grunts.

"I'm not a priest, so I'm allowed," Marcus maintains. Tomas wants to tell him where to shove his _allowance_ , yet to his surprise, after he takes the pills Marcus motions for him to move over and lowers Tomas' head into his lap once more.

He decides to let that go, too, and relish in this contact for as long as it's being offered. It would be stupid to deny whatever this is, even if he doesn't think his recent behavior warrants this level of consideration.

"When you said..." Tomas mumbles. He feels the twitch of a thigh; Marcus probably thought he was out for the count. "Before, when you..."

"Hm?" Marcus prompts.

"About... a parent, being able to do that to their child," Tomas whispers. "I'm not- _Naïve_. Nobody wants to think it but I... I should've..."

It is hardly a single, coherent thought; yet the knot in his chest loosens enough so he can breathe without the mass of it stuck between his ribs, and finally, _finally_  he relaxes.

Marcus says nothing, though his hand pauses, briefly. Tomas makes an unbidden sound, close to a whimper, and Marcus resumes with a huff that can't disguise its fondness. After that, there is a weight to the quiet, the unnamed tension bleeding through his fingertips.

"When I saw the blood on that hammer," Marcus begins to say, the words taut with meaning. And Tomas _wants_ to listen, he does. But the revelation is ill-timed, for the tug of a week's worth of fatigue drags him under, and he sinks into sleep wondering if now he'll ever get the chance to hear this confession.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope ya'll like it; if you did, let me know down below!
> 
> Or hey, come say hi at [ye-olde tumblr](https://logicalbookthief.tumblr.com/) because I need to yell with someone about this goddamn show, my friends are tired of me trying to convince them to watch it.


End file.
